


Reconditus: Hoist By Two Petards: part 5 by Chris_Quinton

by pat_t



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 23:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14175465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pat_t/pseuds/pat_t
Summary: This was a round robin challenge based upon a Jubie picture. It is told in 6 parts, in the following order:Musings and Considerations, by Pat_TGambit of the Black Knight, by elistaireDesires and Fancies, by Pat_TPlans Best Laid, by BeckyHoist by Two Petards, by Chris_QuintonJokes and Fried Eggs, by Pat_T





	Reconditus: Hoist By Two Petards: part 5 by Chris_Quinton

**Author's Note:**

> This was a round robin challenge based upon a Jubie picture. It is told in 6 parts, in the following order:
> 
> Musings and Considerations, by Pat_T  
> Gambit of the Black Knight, by elistaire  
> Desires and Fancies, by Pat_T  
> Plans Best Laid, by Becky  
> Hoist by Two Petards, by Chris_Quinton  
> Jokes and Fried Eggs, by Pat_T

** Hoist By Two Petards  
By Chris_Quiton **

If not handled correctly, the IRS could make life uncomfortable for immortals, so receipts, bank balances and tax returns were something that Mac was very particular about. Not to say meticulous. So with Methos heading for his own place to gather together a survival kit of spare clothes, more alcohol and the book he was half-way through reading and might have a chance to read more of, Mac decided on some basic financial house-keeping to pass the time.

But while he was doing the routine online check on his bank account, he spotted a cuckoo's egg entry among the groceries and antiques purchases. Okay, it wasn't a large amount of money, but it was a payment he had not made nor authorized and therefore had no business being there.

It was the work of moments to track it back to the source: an online florist. A phone call supplied the information that, yes, he had ordered a dozen red roses to be sent to Mr. Adam Pierson. Everything was satisfactory, wasn't it, sir?

He assured them that it was, and stared thoughtfully at the flowers that glowed crimson in the sunlight. The usual suspects were very few: one vaguely possible, and one very probable. Since he hadn't seen Amanda for weeks--months--now, it was unlikely she was the culprit. Joe Dawson, on the other hand, as his Watcher, almost certainly knew everything about him, up to and including his inside leg measurement, not to mention his credit card details. Mac picked up his phone.

"Check your bank account," he said when it was answered. "I think I know who set us up."

There were a few moments of silence, then, "Got it," Methos said crisply. "And for what it's worth, I'd say you're right. Y'know, this calls for reprisals. Council of war?"  
"Council of war," Mac agreed.

Methos began to chuckle, a quiet throaty sound that sent electric tingles down Mac's spine. "How fiendish are you feeling?" drawled the man who had given Machiavelli lessons.

"I'm game for whatever you have in mind," answered the man who had not only kept pace with one Hugh Fitzcairn across the length and breadth of Europe, but had also been known to out-flank him on a fairly regular basis.

Still chuckling, Methos told him exactly what he had in mind.

~~~~~~

Monday nights in the bar were usually quiet, compared to the rest of the week, and Joe sometimes indulged himself if there weren't many patrons around. Tonight was one of those times, so he was on his own up on the small stage, perched on a stool with his guitar and just jamming. Eyes closed, he drifted with his music, letting it flow out of him and through the strings and body of the instrument to curl in the air, forming a random pattern that was a quiet celebration complete in itself. Right then, life felt pretty good.

The melody wound to a natural close and the last note was a pure crystal sound that faded into the rapt silence. The applause, when it came, took him by surprise, and he blinked himself back to the here-and-now. His audience wasn't large; the place was more than half-empty, but every face there was a familiar one. Including the two immortals propping up the bar.

They stood close together, shoulders almost touching, and Joe grinned to himself. He could have a whole new career as a Catholic yenta....

Mac and Methos moved apart as he approached, and there was a glass of whisky waiting for him on the bar between them. "Thanks, guys," he said, leaning on the polished wood.

"My privilege," Mac said quietly. The deep, velvety voice was warm, almost intimate, and utterly sincere. "That music of yours was something special tonight."

"I second that," Methos smiled, hazel eyes rich as sunlight on a clear stream. "You must have been a bard in a previous life."

"And bards were powerful people," Mac continued.

"Magical, some would say," Methos went on, voice dropping an octave to become something close to--well, sultry was the only word that sprang to mind.

Amazing the effect they had on each other. Joe took a sip of his whisky to hide his smile, and his eyes widened. This wasn't from his stock. He had another taste and rolled it over his tongue, letting the fumes soak into him.

"What is this?" he demanded. "Apart from nectar from the gods?"

"Talisker," Mac said solemnly. "Possibly the finest single malt out of the Isle of Skye. I wanted something special for you. To say thank you. The roses were beautiful."

"Beautiful," Methos agreed huskily.

Suddenly wary, Joe put down the glass. "Roses." he said.

"Red ones." Mac nodded, his smile one of almost shy appreciation.

"Very red," Methos breathed, moving closer.

Joe snatched up the glass and took a healthy swallow, which was sacrilege, but right then he didn't care. Because Mac's hand lay over his, and Methos' hand was resting lightly on his hip.

"What--" he began, voice suddenly falsetto. He coughed and got control of his vocal chords. "What are you talking about?"

"Roses," Mac said helpfully. "I just wish you'd told me sooner." And he sighed wistfully.

"Such a criminal waste of time," Methos purred. "But I should have guessed. All those years of Watching--had to mean something...."

"Roses," he bleated, gazing round desperately. But the bar was almost empty and no one was taking any notice of them.

"'To Adam,'" Methos leaned in and whispered it, lips almost touching his cheek. "'It's time we stopped dancing around our attraction to one another. Call me'. And it's signed 'Joe'." Not removing his hand from Joe's hip, he placed a small card face up on the bar. Mac placed its almost-twin beside it. Disbelieving, horrified, Joe stared at the two final words: a J followed by an O and then an E. Clear as day and as impossible as air-borne pigs flying in formation.

"Mine's 'To Duncan'." Mac smiled, gaze luminous, mouth lush. "Same words, same signature. So here we are."

"My God...." Joe moaned and knocked back the remainder of the whiskey in one swallow. "Guys, I--uh--listen, I can explain--"

"It's okay," Methos interrupted, voice gently earnest. "We understand. Take your time."

"All the time you need." Mac's voice was silk-velvet sin, vibrant with all kinds of possibilities that didn't include patience, and his eyes were smouldering.

"The impetuosity of youth." Methos chuckled and traced the outline of Joe's mouth with a gentle fingertip. "Care to share that fine malt?" And he placed a kiss on Joe's astounded lips. "Mmm, good," he murmured. "You're a lot like that whisky, Joe."

"To be tasted at leisure." Mac's fingers stroked his beard, their gentle pressure turning his head, then the man's mouth touched where Methos' had rested and Joe felt the hot moist flick of his tongue-tip. "We'll be ready when you are."

"Just send us roses again," Methos finished, his smile promising five thousand years of erotic practises.

Then the two immortals walked away, and Joe was very glad his legs were plastic and metal because he had the feeling that flesh-and-blood knees would have given out on him a while ago.

"Oh, shit...."


End file.
